I always say I hate Phoenix. I can't wait till we can move. John's been awfully pessimistic lately and says we'll be stuck here till we retire. I don't buy it, if we want to live our dreams, we will. Phoenix is HOT. Phoenix doesn't have a beautiful cool, crisp colorful autumn, like the one we just experienced in our week in Barry Illinois. My house is a mess. Not the kind of mess where stuff is scattered everywhere, but the kind of mess where the bathroom counters are DIRTY and the floor just cries out in a silent voice for an interlude with a mop.
But when we landed in Phoenix, after dark, it was still over 90 degrees. And we came home to our imperfect home, with the sticky spot on the kitchen floor. Oh how glad I am to be here! I celebrated with a serious bathroom scrubbing.
As picturesque and perfect as Barry is, as white the whitewashed farmhouses, and red-gold the maple leaves, as imminently catchable the frogs at Kaiser Creek, and friendly the staff at Stroemer's grocery, (who will not only take your groceries to your car for you, they will do so while you are still paying, because, in a town of 1400, chances are , they recognize your car, and it won't be locked), as kind and welcoming our family, as exhilarating (and perhaps dangerous) the metal push merry-go-round at the park, as sprightly the squirrels, and stately the deer, home is home. And as long as Home is in Phoenix, home is where I long to come home to.